peevish mama

Believe it or not, there are whole chunks of time when I float along writing whatever it is I write on this blog without getting all freaky deaky about it. Times when I feel like it’s fun for me, maybe fun for a few others, and I don’t give it much thought beyond that. But the thing about a blog is that it’s a solitary endeavor. I just put thoughts and words out into cyberspace and there is no one there to stop me. To check me. To laugh in my face. To go pshh, ya, whatever. I just deck myself out in my own particular brand of crazy and there’s no one to give me the stink eye and send me back to my closet.

I’m the peevish unabomber and like everyone who holes up with their own thoughts for too long, I start to go a little batty. And if you can indulge me in my stretchy metaphor that this blog is a remote, dingy, one room cabin filled with papers, empty cans and beaver pelts, then I dare say you’ll humor me in taking it a bit further and agree that this blog can also be a big, moist yellow batter cake with white buttercream frosting that serenely sits on a cake stand with the songs of angels wafting about it.

And the thing about lonely shanties is that every once in a great while, there’s a knock at the door. 

And the thing about beautiful white cakes is that it’s only a matter of time before a big gleaming knife cuts right through it.

And the thing about this blog, is that from time to time something jars me into realizing that this isn’t all just in my head. That all this crazy talk, all these absurd musings are real, that they’re out there and anyone can read them, giving them an up close and personal tour of the inner workings of my mind.

And then I feel deeply deeply sheepish. So sheepish in fact, that if I were one of those dolls that has another doll under its skirt that you unveil by pulling the skirt over the first doll, then the first doll would be Peevish Mama and the doll under the skirt would be Sheepish Mama. You see?  I’m doing it again. I can’t help myself. I do love those dolls though.

A few months ago, Dash and I were out to dinner with Pipes and his lovely girlfriend Sassy Jewels and Pipes mentioned that his youngest daughter had asked whether she could read my blog. Now I’ve known this little chickie since she was four. She now babysits my kids. I understand that she’s quite a little writer and I adore her. So my reaction was something along the lines of OF COURSE THE FUCK NOT!!! Luckily Pipes was on the same page and I don’t have to worry about corrupting the girl with my ruminations. But it made me stop for a second and take stock. There’s a lot of my “stuff” in here, and it’s not for everyone.

I had a similar reaction in another situation when I ran into my friend La Chilenita walking with her friend. Oh, smiled La Chilenita when she saw me, this is my friend so and so and this is her first baby and I was just telling her about your blog! And I thought, oh dear God! This poor young naive mother will be prematurely and irrevocably tainted with my weary venom! She doesn’t need to know about how it’s all going to unravel for her a few years and kids down the road. Let her enjoy her baby and the smug belief that she’s a good mom. She doesn’t need to know how much she’s going to yell. She doesn’t need to know how much food off the floor she’s going to let her kids eat. She doesn’t need to know how many times she’s going to forget chess club. She doesn’t need to know she will disappoint her kids. She doesn’t need to know she will disappoint herself.

But I eventually shake off the cringe. I tell myself that if it doesn’t resonate with someone, doesn’t catch their interest, they won’t come back. It’s simple, really. Doors are made to be knocked on. Cakes are made to be eaten. Blogs are meant to be read. That is until you get a comment from the Minneapolis Farmers Market where, in simple terse words, they thank you for supporting farmers. Waah? All of the sudden you’re pulling your skirt over your head becoming Sheepish Mama doll again, because, really? Really? Did I really just subject this nameless, faceless, innocent at the Minneapolis Farmers Market to Squash Claw? Oh dear God.